


all kinds of guns

by t_fic (topaz), topaz, topaz119 (topaz)



Series: you need a rock not a rolling stone [2]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Community: cottoncandy_bingo, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/t_fic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz119
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the record, Darcy would like it known that being an adult really fucking <i>sucks</i> sometimes. And she would also like it known that she has held off on that assessment until it was really, <i>really</i> true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all kinds of guns

**Author's Note:**

> Future timestamp for [you need a rock not a rolling stone](http://archiveofourown.org/works/366960/chapters/596456), so That Thing That Happened in _The Avengers_ either didn't happen or we're out to the other side of it all being fixed.

For the record, Darcy would like it known that being an adult really fucking _sucks_ sometimes. And she would also like it known that she has held off on that assessment until it was really, _really_ true. She isn't talking about stuff like how having an on-the-ball boss who can actually tell if you're not awake and alert and intelligent before eight in the morning is good but not really compatible with the really stellar B-movies that show up after the Late Late Show (Ferguson just doesn't feel right DVR'd and re-watched at a reasonable time); or how paychecks, with their taxes and retirement and insurance deductions are way less fun than they appeared to be when she was getting most of her income from grants and student stipends. She isn't even talking about how having a hot ( _the_ hottest, she doesn't care if you're counting Steve and/or Thor in the comparison, she knows what turns her crank and blond ain't it) Avenger for a boyfriend means that the awesome scenery (helloooo, arms) and general, overall badassery is balanced by semi-regular days/nights/weeks where she's planted in front of a SHIELD computer, biting her nails and monitoring whatever 'situation' is in progress, much less the (fortunately much less frequent) moments of heart-stopping terror (fucking sue her, it flips her out to see Clint take a dive off a building on the real-time mission feeds).

No, Darcy can handle all that, thank you _very_ much. Watching said hot(test) Avenger boyfriend with oxygen masks and tubes and monitors and Darcy doesn't even know what else hasn't even sent her over the edge. (It's pushed her right up close to it, she will freely acknowledge this, but the rest of the team had closed ranks around them and it is indescribably comforting to have Steve right there next to you, and Natasha standing guard, and Tony flying in specialists, not to mention Coulson setting up shop in the waiting room, running ops on his phone.) All of that is seriously, _seriously_ not fun, but the proverbial straw that sends everything into The Suck is the twitchy, fucking _hunted_ look in Clint's eyes when the medical types finish outlining all the things he's not allowed to do for the next couple of weeks and knowing it's only a matter of days before the enforced downtime is going to make him crazy enough to not only do every single thing on the list, but also probably try to sneak out for a little solo patrolling just to 'keep his hand in,' all of which will undoubtedly end in a complete death spiral of all that is bad with the world.

"Look," Darcy says, once the last nurse has left and it's just her and Clint in his supposed-to-be-soothing-but-really-so-bland-it's-evil room at the rehab center. "We don't have to hang around and do nothing." Clint flicks a glance at her, but doesn't say anything, which is not great, but also isn't horrible. "We could, I don't know, go away for the weekend or something." 

"Darce--" Clint sighs, with a pained look that Darcy can accept as almost-kinda-sorta justified, because, yeah, she does tend to go a little nuts with the research and the planning when faced with vacation time, so she jumps back in to say, "No, no, totally low-key. Promise."

"Sorry," Clint says, and fuck but Darcy hates the way he tenses up when he moves. "I'm not going to be up for much, not with all this." He gestures at his side; he's out of the stupid hospital gowns now, so Darcy can't see the scar, but she knows it's still raw-looking.

"Hey," she says, leaning in and tipping her head so that they're practically breathing the same air, because touching works wonders, for both of them. "People who have emergency field splenectomies are exempted from DefCon 1 vacations. People who have sat with people who've had emergency field splenectomies are also exempted, so we are totally on the same page." It comes out nice and light, Darcy thinks. No sign of the couple of times she'd totally broke down on Steve, times she does not want Clint hearing about in anything other than the most abstract of ways. "We'll go be low-key and chill somewhere that doesn't have a view of Walter Reed Medical Center." _Or the Tower_ , Darcy adds mentally, because all that's going to do is remind the bullheaded one she's head-over-heels for of all the shit he's not supposed to do.

Clint hangs stubborn for a little while longer, even with Coulson weighing in on Darcy's side, but Darcy has the Black Widow ace in the hole and she isn't afraid to play it. Natasha is out (with Steve) on her Natalie-Rushman (and boyfriend, holy crap) op but Darcy knows she'd be solid in Darcy's corner on this one, and--more importantly--so does Clint. All Darcy has to do is mention going through channels to contact her and he _finally_ okays the general idea. 

(While she’s happy they get to skip out of Dodge for a couple of days, Darcy's actually a little sad about Clint’s capitulation because she is _dying_ to know how that op is going and Coulson is totally mum. She guesses she'll just have to ply Steve with cannoli and espresso when they get back and pump him for information when the sugar and caffeine rush hits him.) 

(Or maybe get Pepper to issue a girls-night invitation and see what Tasha can be persuaded to share.) 

(Or both.)

* * *

The first big fight about the whole thing pops up not twelve hours later, when Clint finds out she's renting a car for the trip. She doesn't know how he thinks they're getting anywhere without one, but he definitely isn't happy about her spending money like that. She can't wait until they get to the hotel part.

"It's _fine_ ," Darcy keeps saying through gritted teeth. "I do actually have a job that pays pretty goddamned well, you know." Clint opens his mouth, but Darcy plows on. "And if you tell me I shouldn't be spending it on you, we are going to have _words_ , Barton."

"I thought that's what we were already having," Clint mutters. Darcy narrows her eyes at him, but, unsurprisingly, he doesn't back down. She reminds herself it's one of the reasons she loves the stupid, stubborn ass, because as much as she doesn't want someone who thinks she's a pushover, she doesn't want one herself. She keeps reminding herself of that, and finally agrees to let him pay half, even though she's pretty sure he's just going along with the whole vacation idea to humor her and that doesn't seem like a very good reason to spend his money. But, hey: compromise. It's a good thing, right?

She thinks they might be getting better at the whole being-an-actual-functioning-couple-in-it-for-the-long-haul thing, because it only takes them twenty minutes of fussing at each other to get things worked out, and then there's cuddling. Clint, of course, doesn't call it that, but Darcy's tucked up along his not-stitched-together side and random kissing is happening, so he slap can whatever label he wants on it, Darcy doesn't even care.

* * *

"It was, I don't know… refreshing?" Darcy tells Jane the next morning. "Fighting, I mean. That's kind of sad, yeah?"

Jane shrugs and the Skype window goes a fuzzy for a couple of seconds. "—kind of you, actually," Jane's saying when it clears up. "You and Clint don't generally back down from telling each other much—both of you must have been biting your tongues now for a while."

"I can't be yelling at him when he's barely conscious," Darcy says indignantly.

"And he's not going to snap at you when you're scared to death for him," Jane answers. "So, both of you getting snippy with each other is, like, a sign that things are getting better."

Darcy frowns thoughtfully; Jane ignores her and goes back to making notes on whatever printout she has in front of her. She's close to a breakthrough, Darcy knows, but she's called Darcy every day since Clint and the SUV he was riding in got caught in the outer edge of the tornado kicked up by AIM's shiny new lab-experiment-gone-global-domination project. Everyone inside was mostly okay—they'd been belted/harnessed in—but Hawkeye, of course, had been halfway out the sunroof, firing steadily at the command center, so when the wind had picked the whole reinforced truck up and threw it a quarter of a mile down the mountain, he was lucky to only have dislocated shoulders, four broken ribs, too many cuts and bruises to count (Darcy assumes someone medical actually did count them, but she personally gets nauseated at more than thirty, so she stops then), and the ruptured spleen. Occasionally, Darcy has a spectacular, Technicolor nightmare where the SUV cartwheels right over where Clint landed instead of smashing into the rocky outcropping that had actually stopped it (no, it was not the smartest idea she'd ever had to go and find the archived mission feeds, but she couldn't not know), but that's life with the Avengers. 

Anyway. Jane calls every single day. Some days, Darcy hasn't been able to do anything but hunch over and try to remember how to breathe while Jane croons at her, and other days, Darcy rants and yells and paces, but Jane still calls and Darcy thinks it's maybe what having a sister is like.

"I guess you're right," Darcy finally says, and Jane smiles very, very smugly.

"I occasionally do understand things besides astrophysics," Jane says. "And it's not like you two are especially complicated—"

"Whoops, look at the time," Darcy says, before Jane can offer up any analyses of her and Clint's relationship. Sisterhood is nice and all, but Darcy has limits. "Don't you have a conference call or a meeting or—"

Jane looks panicked for a second but then she narrows her eyes at Darcy and says, "You really do need a break--that was the lamest distraction you've ever tried to pull on me." 

"Still had you going for a sec," Darcy says. "But yes, yes, I really fucking do need a break, and I don't care how much yelling it takes, I'm going to get one."

Jane actually cheers her on, and it's all very energizing in a you-go-girl sort of way, but then they both have places to be and people to argue with, and Darcy's back to the reality of physical therapy and keeping a good face on it all. She reminds herself that she's lucky to have someone to have to keep a stiff upper lip for and wades back into the fray.

* * *

Darcy is somehow unsurprised that Coulson's knowing of everything extends to the relative merits of the various beaches along the Delmarva shore and the best way to negotiate for vacation rentals during the high season. Darcy could have planned everything without him, but it would have taken a lot longer and she'd have been way more stressed before she finished.

She holds her breath that there isn't another stupid complication (if she never hears anything more about infections and the function of the spleen in regulating the same, she will die a happy woman) but the doctors and therapists all sign off on the plan and in less time than Darcy had even hoped for, she and Clint are on the Beltway ahead of the usual Friday afternoon traffic jam, a portable version of Jarvis navigating and Skynyrd on the truck's satellite radio. (She would like to note that the Skynyrd is so not her idea, but it generally gets Clint into a pretty laidback mood and since that's the overarching theme of the whole trip, Darcy can deal. Also, she rented a RAV4, because it was the cheapest four-wheel drive they had and the cute factor is killing the tough guy in the passenger seat so she's willing to compromise on some other stuff.)

"I didn't--this isn't anything great, you know," Darcy says. She usually doesn't run herself down, but Clint's looking almost...well, not excited, because he mostly saves that for new ordinance of the exploding variety, but he actually looks like he can breathe now that they're out of sight of the hospital, and she has this sudden fear that the whole idea is going to end up being a complete disappointment. "It's just, you know, a little place on a marsh, not too far from the ocean. About a zero-point-five on the Stark Scale." 

"Sweetheart," Clint says with a grin that's so close to his normal lazy expression that Darcy can feel her heart skipping a beat or two, just from how much she's missed it. "As long as it's not cave in Siberia, I don't fucking care." He leans his head back against the seat and closes his eyes. "Actually, strike that--I don't care if it _is_ a cave in Siberia. I'm good with anything that's not a hospital or rehab."

"Excellent; I can work with those expectations--" Darcy has to stop talking for a second or two, because sweetflamingjesus but people drive like morons on I95 and, what with the whole living in New York thing--and having SHIELD drones handling her transportation for the better part of a year--she's gotten out of practice at actually driving anything more realistic than GTA. Clint pries one eye open to survey the situation but doesn't say anything until she's managed to make it across three lanes and onto the exit, at which point he flips off the moron who tried to cut her off. If Darcy was the swooning type, she'd so be there, but since she's not, she just flips the asshole off, too, and then blows her boyfriend a kiss. It is, so far, an _excellent_ vacation and they're not even out of the metro area.

* * *

The house they've got for the weekend is tiny and really isn't anything special, but it's at the end of an oyster-shell road and the bedroom looks out over the marsh. The TV isn't hooked up to a satellite or cable but there's a DVD player and the lamps on the tables next to the couch are good ones, bright enough to read by. It's quiet and peaceful and there isn't a medical person in sight. Darcy can feel the tension sloughing off them both even before they get all their stuff inside and she can declare vacation officially on.

Clint wanders through the small rooms, a low-key version of his usual prowling recon, and she straggles along behind him. They end up sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the marsh grasses outside the window bend in the breeze, and she's not even going to try to front about how they end up crashed out together for the rest of the afternoon, half-asleep and listening to the birds. It's the best nap Darcy might have had in her entire life, and certainly the best since Sitwell had shown up on campus, hustling her out of her lecture hall and into a Quinjet for the ride from New York to DC, the entire trip accomplished in excruciating silence (which she later found out was because Clint had flat-lined three times while they were in the air and Jasper hadn't known if he was taking her to see her boyfriend or his body.) 

Excellent naps aside, dinner is not going to happen by itself, so there's some mumbling and muttering and it gets decided that they are not completely anti-social slugs and can get themselves vertical and out the door to find someplace to eat. Clint keeps looking at her, like she's maybe a pod person, because normally she's got a handle on shit like this and can at least supply options, but but she hadn't found the house until the very last second and she'd promised not to flake out with the planning, so all she basically knows is that there's a road that runs north-to-south along the island and most everything is along it.

The first couple of places are clearly tourist traps, and then there's a sketchy-looking bar that makes Darcy's skin crawl just looking at the dirty windows, but the place next to it isn't nearly as nasty. Plus, it has a hand-lettered sign that lists the daily specials (steamers and steaks, which neither of them is going to argue about) while also noting that they have an "international" wine list.

"I don't think I can pass that by even if you're not supposed to be drinking and I'm driving," Darcy says, and she swears that the sneaky little smirk that's curving just the right side of Clint's mouth is almost as attractive as his habit of wearing t-shirts that do nothing to hide his arms and shoulders. Moreso, because scenery is all well and good, but she'd have gotten bored long ago if that was all there was. She also really likes the way he oh-so-casually gets a picture of the sign on the way in. He tends to watch _Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives_ the way some people watch soap operas and once he'd found out just how much Steve likes eating in places that aren't chains, the list of under-the-radar places to eat had been born. Aside from how cute Darcy finds the two of them and their foodie-based bromance (it's even more adorable when they both strenuously object to being called cute), she's just happy to see him engaged with life again.

She'd be happier if said re-engagement extended to more than five bites of the steamer bucket they'd decided to split but since she's not all that excited about food either, she doesn't exactly have the moral high ground. It's probably good enough that they're eating actual, real food instead of the hospital/rehab center slop and/or the junk food Darcy's been smuggling in once he got off the IVs and clear liquids. Plus, for all that they basically napped the afternoon away, she's tired and Clint doesn't look any much livelier; neither of them need a lot of food weighing them down during the night. 

The moon is waxing to full and bright enough that they don't even bother turning on lights when they get back to their little rental, just fall into the rumpled bed under the silvery light. It's not particularly quiet--the frogs and the crickets and whatever else is out there in the marsh make a hell of a racket--but it _is_ peaceful, and Darcy's asleep almost before she finishes the thought.

* * *

The frog noises have changed to birds chattering and screeching when Darcy opens her eyes again, but that's all drowned out by the sudden adrenaline rush when it turns out there's no Clint next to her. She tumbles out of bed, flailing for her glasses and throwing herself out of the room. On one level, she knows she's being ridiculous but it's too fucking close to too many nightmares she's had over the last month and she can't seem to make her body listen to reason. There's no one in the main room either, and her stupid brain kicks into to overdrive and sends her running out the door.

Clint is, of course, sitting on the little porch looking out over the marsh, bare feet up on the railing and a mug of coffee cradled in his lap. He looks up as she skids to a stop and she has a sudden, horrible thought of what a freak she must look like, her hair wild from bed and her face already blotching up from the tears she's been choking back. 

"Darce--?" Clint sits up straight, his mug thumping down onto the wooden floor, but Darcy's already spun around and started back into the house. She makes it to the little bar that separates the kitchen from the living area before she can't see from the tears, which is good because it's something to hold onto, but bad because it's only three steps from the door so Clint's there almost before she stops moving. 

"Hey," he says, low and easy, and _dammit_ , he's not supposed to be the caretaking one, not when he's still covered in faded yellow and green bruises, but Darcy can't not turn into him. And the thing about Clint is that however good his arms look, they feel even better so she just hangs on and lets herself go. It's not super-bad, like after he'd spiked a 105 fever and started having convulsions right in front of her--she'd totally lost it on Steve then, crying until she threw up--but she's pretty much destroyed Clint's t-shirt before she's done. 

"Okay?" Clint asks when she takes one final shuddering breath and straightens up. She nods, and it actually is true, as though she's cleared all the residual crap out of her psyche. He holds her chin steady and wipes her face with the hem of his shirt. 

"Tell me you're leaving next time," Darcy says, with one final, semi-humiliating sniffle and hiccup. "Apparently, my brain is not totally on-board with how you're tougher than you look and this is like any old day at the office."

"Well, not quite any old day," Clint says, and she rolls her eyes at him. "I'll poke you next time, but no bitching at me for waking you up."

"Deal," Darcy says, going back in for another hug. "Sorry," she mumbles into his shoulder, squeaking a little when his arms tighten around her, enough that it's hard to breathe. She doesn't let go, though, not for a really long time.

* * *

"Okay," Darcy says, once coffee has been produced and consumed and the day can officially begin. "Beach? Sandcastles, waves, sea shells?"

"You're the tour guide, sweetheart," Clint says. "I'm just along for the ride."

Darcy frowns at him. "Don't give me that self-sacrificing BS, Barton."

"Babe, I've seen that thing you're calling a bathing suit," he answers. "Trust me, I'm not sacrificing anything when that's around."

"Classy," Darcy says. 

"You're just now figuring that out?"

For a second, Darcy thinks she hears something more than their usual back-and-forthing, but when she looks at him, she only sees what looks like his familiar smirk. She's willing to concede that her internal radar is a little off after all the waterworks earlier, so she lets it slide and just concentrates on assembling all her necessary beach stuff. Clint waits patiently, which is like the first time in the history of ever that he hasn't given her a hard time about her definition of 'necessary.' It's kind of weird, but she _has_ kept her personal stash to one (awesomely retro) canvas bag, so she lets herself be distracted by getting every centimeter of her skin covered in adequate levels of sunblock, which, since Clint is assisting, is _epic_ levels of distraction. By the time they're done with _that_ , she's talked herself back to where things are off-kilter because, well, it's been a fucked-up month. 

It's all cool until they're almost to the end of the island, the four-wheel drive crawling slow and steady through the hard-packed sand, and Clint says quietly, "You don't have to do this." His voice is even and calm; it's the voice Darcy's heard on op recordings no matter what's raining down on him, Hawkeye's voice. "All of this. You don't... no one would blame you if it was too crazy for you."

Darcy's actually been waiting for this, for him to do his version of losing it; if anything, she's relieved he's not going to drag it out any longer. She and Natasha had even talked about it before Natasha had had to leave for the op, but she still has to swallow twice before she can say, "It's not." Her brain goes back into stupid mode at the thought of how much it was and she has to blink hard and fast to get the tears out of her eyes, but she means it. She just has to make sure he knows that. They're a hundred feet past the last group of people, almost to where the island narrows to a point, so she just stops the car and wills her voice not to crack. "I used to worry about that, you know? That I wouldn't be able to deal, and I'm not saying I want to do this again, like _ever_ , or that it hasn't been hard, but it's not too crazy for me."

Darcy risks a look at Clint. He's in full no-expression land, which isn't exactly helpful, but she still needs to say the next part, no matter how hard it is; it's not going to go away otherwise. She looks back at the ocean and sand spread out in front of them and goes for it. "You don't have to do this either," she says.

"Darce--"

"No, seriously," Darcy says. "It's okay if you feel like-- if you decide you don't need to be spending your energy on me, okay? You should--I shouldn't be messing with your focus like that, you need to be dealing with you and healing, not--"

"Who told you that?" Clint says, low and snarling, enough that Darcy almost flinches at it. She manages not to (because she knows good and well when he's mad at her and when he's in overprotective mode and this is definitely Door Number Two) but she can't do anything about how she's staring at him, mouth still open from where he'd interrupted her. " _Who_ , Darcy?"

"Nobody," Darcy finally says, and when he obviously doesn't believe her, like she's some stupid little girl to be manipulated by other people's expectations, she sets her jaw and adds, "Me. I'm doing the the telling. I've been here all along, and I can see things, you know. I'm just saying that if you need space--" 

"I don't," Clint says, biting off each word. "This isn't the first time for all this," his gesture takes in the scar and the bruises and all the crap they bring with them, "and trust me, as much fun as this isn't, it was worse before." He pushes his sunglasses up on his head and rubs hard at the bridge of his nose the way he does when he's working on a week of shitty sleep because of the nightmares. "Before you," he adds, matter-of-fact and tired. "Okay?"

"Okay," Darcy manages to say, even if her voice is all shaky and weird. "That--I think that's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me." Clint huffs out a disbelieving kind of a laugh so she adds, "No, no--I mean that in the best possible way." 

She reaches over and touches his face; now that his shades are off, Darcy can see the lines at the corners of his eyes and she knows him well enough to know they're not all from laughter. She turns off the engine and fumbles in her bag for the med kit and the non-crazy pain meds. When he dry-swallows the one she shakes out into his hand before she can even reach for her bottle of water, she says, "We don't have to stay--I know this wasn't your idea of fun--"

"No," Clint answers, pulling his sunglasses back down. "No, this is--good." He eases out of the car and circles around to join her while she hauls all her crap out and sets up a base camp. "I, uh, might have to take a nap, though."

"I am all over that," Darcy tells him. The giant towel and the back rests are already out and in play; the ultralight umbrella and the cooler and her bag don't take long to follow. She might not have had time to go into overdrive as far as planning, but it is pretty amazing what she can accomplish with a Stark phone and Tony's personal shipping accounts, even if she does say so herself. It all actually comes together smoothly, and they're settled in next to no time, Clint stretched out with his head in her lap and the rest of him in the sun while she has her stack of books and is wedged back under the umbrella (even with Pepper's amazingly incredible sunblock of the goddesses, Darcy's skin does not play well with ultraviolet rays and, as might have been noted earlier, there is a _lot_ of it on display.) 

"Wake me up in an hour," Clint says, frowning up at her until she gives in and sets an alarm on her phone. He's probably right: this is the first chance she's had in way too long to read things not necessary for a grade and she'll never surface if something isn't pinging at her. "Don't put on more sunblock without me."

"Again, Barton: classy." Darcy gives him A Look over the top of her sunglasses, just to keep her hand in. 

"Helpful," Clint mumbles, but he's already halfway out so Darcy settles back with her first book and saves the rest of the discussion for later.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to withdiamonds for the read-through. This all grew out of the _sandcastles_ prompt on my [](http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**cottoncandy_bingo**](http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) [card](http://topaz119.dreamwidth.org/17830.html) though the sandcastles didn't quite make the final cut.
> 
> Title from Tilly and the Wall's _All Kind of Guns_ , mostly because I loved the lyric _...because (s)he ain't the kind of soul you wanna test_ for these two (gender expansion all mine.)


End file.
